The Truth and Nothing But
by skag trendy
Summary: After Sam is found gunshot and bleeding out on a motel room floor, he refuses to talk about it.  His increasing depression, and brooding silences, force Dean and Bobby to take drastic steps towards uncovering the truth.  Who shot Sam Winchester and why?
1. Chapter 1

**The Truth, and Nothing But.**

**Season 2, set a few months after BUABS.**

**After Sam is found gunshot and bleeding out on a motel room floor, he refuses to talk about it. His increasing depression, and brooding silences, force Dean and Bobby to take drastic steps towards uncovering the truth. **

**Who shot Sam Winchester and why?**

**Warning: This is a Brotherly Schmoop Zone. Enter at own risk.**

**Also, swearing.**

**Many thanks to Devon99 for the speedy beta.**

**Chapter 1**

Dean watched the blips pinging up and down on the monitor, checked his watch, listened to the hiss of oxygen, and fought back a weary sigh.

It had been twelve hours since they arrived at the ER, and a little more than that since he found Sam lying in a pool of his own blood on the motel room floor.

Six hours he had spent watching the emergency surgery from the observation room window above, flinching, heart in his mouth, as the surgeons worked on saving his little brother's life.

* * *

><p>Four hours post – op, Sam still hadn't regained consciousness but Dean remained hopeful.<p>

* * *

><p>Almost two weeks later, Sam sat quietly in the wheelchair, arms tucked awkwardly inside the rests, humungous feet overhanging the pedals. It should have looked comical, like a circus clown trying to ride a child's tricycle.<p>

It looked anything but.

Dean kept up the smiles and teasing quips, acted as though nothing was wrong or out of place, but Sam didn't remark. Nor did he sigh or comment when Dean ruffled his hair and called him Sammy. He just sat, silently, with a hangdog expression that would have put a blood hound to shame.

This time it wasn't weariness Dean was fighting to hold back. Now he was battling the urge to clip Sam upside the head and demand that the kid talk to him. Thumping him wouldn't be helpful to his recovery, but Dean's hand twitched regardless.

For ten days, Dean had sat by Sam's bed, waiting for him to wake up, and a further six after that waiting for some kind of sign that Sam was still with him. While Dean attempted to maintain a level of normalcy and conversation, his little brother was busy perfecting the thousand yard stare.

The doctors had warned him of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and Dean was willing to acknowledge that being shot at close range with a high powered weapon in their own motel room _was_ probably responsible for most of Sam's silence. But Dean also knew the kid like the back of his hand.

There was something else going on, and his suspicions were confirmed by the telltale glimmer in Sam's eyes whenever Dean tried to discuss the events of that night.

For whatever reason, Sam blamed himself.

Dean wouldn't give up on him. Sam was harbouring some terrible knowledge in that freaky head of his, something that was growing and festering day by day, and Dean was determined to lance the boil, so to speak.

But right now, he had to get his kid brother comfortable, warm, and safe.

"Here we go, Sammy," Dean murmured, gently grasping Sam's arm, getting ready to help him to his feet.

Sam started and blinked up at his brother, as though just coming awake.

"Uh… oh… right," he mumbled, looking a little unsure what to do with himself.

Dean repressed a sigh and widened his smile instead.

"Time to break the hell out of this place," he joked, and nodded to the open rear door of the Impala. "But let's just take it nice and slow, huh?"

A soft, mobile bed awaited Sam, made of stolen hospital blankets and mounds of pillows. Dean had obviously gone to some effort because, settled in the foot well on a clean sheet, was a carton of orange juice with a straw poking out the top, a bottle of chilled water, and some pain killers.

Sam saw all this and turned his head away for a few seconds.

"Uh… th-thanks, Dean," he muttered, and sniffed quietly.

Dean frowned but otherwise let it pass.

The kid wobbled a little when Dean gently pulled him out of the chair, and clutched fiercely at his older brother's flannel shirt, breathing heavily.

Dean stopped moving, and took all of Sam's considerable weight without so much as a whimper of protest.

Sam was exhausted and obviously still in a terrible amount of pain, but his stubborn nature kept him silent, unwilling to impart that piece of information, even under torture. His body, however, betrayed him with shakes, shivers, and a cold sweat soaking through his clothes, all the signs that even this small amount of movement was just too much for him.

"S'ok, Sammy," Dean whispered, kindly, rubbing Sam's arm. "I gotcha. Just let me do all the work."

Sam hung there, struggling to calm his breathing, still clutching tightly at Dean's shirt, and it was a good few minutes before he nodded.

The two men shuffled closer to the car, Sam's jaw clenching and unclenching rhythmically with each movement.

"I'm just gonna turn you, ok? Slowly now…" Dean carefully moved round behind his brother adjusting his grip but not letting go, and helped him turn to the side. "And… down… watch your head…"

Not that Sam needed to worry about that at all. Dean was already watching it for him, with one hand splayed across Sam's scalp, cradling it like a newborn baby, while he slowly ducked down and inside the car.

Dean crouched down and regarded his kid brother with concern. Sam was resting back in the seat, eyes closed, clearly pushed to the limits of his endurance. His pale, young face showed every ounce of pain he tried so unsuccessfully to hide; ironically, from the one person he could never hide anything from, at least, not for long.

"Sam, maybe you should've stayed a little longer."

Sam opened his eyes when he heard Dean's quiet suggestion.

"I'm fine," Sam replied, breathlessly. "Just need a little down time, that's all. Quit worrying, Dean."

Dean's frown deepened. Sam wasn't being petulant or even bitchy, just plain old fashioned resigned, and that was even more worrying. It sounded like Sam had given up, as though he truly believed he deserved this.

But there was no point in arguing. In Sam's shoes, Dean would have been complaining his way free from the ICU days ago. Sam, on the other hand, hadn't uttered one single complaint. He'd mutely eaten the shit food without even a grimace, obediently taken his meds, and slept when told to by his doctor.

The only glitch had been his statement to the police. Dean knew all his brother's tells, so he was the only one in the room who'd flat out known the exact point Sam lied his ass off.

_Can you remember who shot you? Did you get a good look at your assailant?_

_No, I'm sorry, I don't remember anything…_

Dean had thought long and hard about this, had tried every trick in the book to get Sam to open up, but the only thing he got from him were the big, sorrowful, puppy dog eyes, stubbornly holding on to that flash of self-condemnation.

Dean had gone over the options and possibilities in his head, and after a few phone conversations with Bobby Singer, finally reached a conclusion:

The gunman was a hunter.

No way was this a random burglary. The shooter was too damn professional for that. They'd silently slipped into the room at a busy motel on a Saturday night, caught a trained and experienced hunter unawares, and fired a shot without disturbing the other patrons. Obviously, some kind of a muffler had been employed to silence the retort, and how many small time burglars raided cheap, nasty motel rooms with an expensive, muffler equipped .44?

And why choose the brothers' room, specifically?

Too many coincidences.

The gunman knew what they wanted and knew their target well.

This was an execution attempt.

Why Sam, and why did it fail?

The assassin was long gone by the time Dean got back to the room, finding the door ajar, and the old black and white TV crackling away to itself. There would have been plenty of time to finish the job. A double tap to the head and lights out.

Dean tried not to flinch on the heels of that thought.

The cops had noted an anonymous call to emergency services, informing them of a gunshot victim at the nearby motel. The voice had been disguised to sound artificially deeper, but the dispatcher could have sworn the caller was female.

Dean had easily shrugged that off. Someone could have walked on by the open door, peered inside and seen a guy sprawled out on the floor in a pool of blood. Not many people would want to get directly involved in something that looked mighty suspicious, especially if there was the possibility the attacker was still in the room somewhere. But some kind soul might have put in a call on Sam's behalf, and if he was honest, Dean could admit it would have been the safest course of action for any civilian.

According to the local cops, there'd been no sign anyone else had been in the room besides Sam. No fibres, no hairs, no foot prints in Sam's blood. Nothing.

Just a broken mirror in the bathroom, which Dean was pretty sure had nothing to do with any of this. Sam's doc had found pieces of mirror shards in a few cuts on Sam's arm. Nothing serious, and no prizes for guessing what happened, though the 'why' of it was still a mystery.

Whoever shot his kid brother had either expertly, and quietly,picked the lock, or Sam had invited them in.

That last one was a little hard to swallow, but Dean couldn't ignore the possibility.

Now, it was a tiny, insignificant detail to the cops, but Sam claimed the last thing he remembered was leaving the bathroom, and pulling a shirt over his head. He'd felt the pain in his back, then nothing.

_Liar!_ Dean's instincts screamed and stamped their feet like a four year old in a tantrum.

Dean had found him actually _wearing_ the shirt. It was stained by blood and bearing a lethal looking entry wound in the back, just below Sam's heart.

Yet, the way Sam told it, he'd dropped before managing to pull the shirt right on.

Dean was willing to buy that, having been shot in the back, Sam might not have seen his assailant right at the moment the bullet left the barrel, but Sam was conscious when Dean found him, bleeding out and in shock. The shooter would have known that, would have checked to see if he was still alive.

And, most importantly, Dean didn't care how injured he was, or how much shock he was in, Sam's Einstein-sized brain wouldn't have just let a little detail like the assailant's face slip by him. Dean knew him better than that. It would have been recorded in Sam's mind right off the bat, like a plane on autopilot.

Maybe the assassin wore a ski mask, but Dean's instincts were telling him otherwise.

Sam knew who it was. Which meant he just didn't trust anyone enough to open up.

That hurt, Dean admitted to himself, reluctantly. When he confessed to Bobby Singer, the gruff old codger had snorted down the line at him.

_This ain't about you, kid. Sam trusts you with his life. No, this is something far trickier, far deeper. Tread gently around him, Dean, and he'll come clean soon enough..._

So he was resigned to waiting it out. For now.

The journey went smoothly, with only a couple of meal breaks. Dean had been tempted to stop overnight for a break, but images of motel room carpets stained with fresh blood kept flooding his head, and Sam seemed comfortable enough, so Dean put his foot down. The car growled softly, picked up speed, glided past all potential rest stops and carried the brothers safely onwards.

* * *

><p>Bobby Singer's salvage yard was its usual, charming mess of broken down and rusting automobile history. In fact, Dean had once sworn he'd seen a documentary on the History channel about it, where the enthusiastic presenter had been run off the property by a fierce, bearded, shotgun wielding, badger in a ball cap.<p>

Bobby had grunted something unintelligible at the time, and given Dean a solid cuff to the back of the head that he was sure to never forget.

Unconsciously rubbing that exact same spot, Dean grinned as he drove carefully through the gates. Home, sweet home.

"Sam? You awake, buddy?" he called softly, and pulled up, switching the engine off.

Twisting in his seat, he assessed his little brother, noting the pain lines and tightly clenched jaw.

Dull, lifeless, blue-green eyes cracked open and peered out at him.

Sam stared at him blankly for a few seconds, then nodded and slowly began to sit up.

"Whoa, hey!" Dean scrambled out from the behind the wheel and headed round to assist him. "Just stay still and I'll get you out…"

"I can handle it, Dean," said Sam, again not sounding pissed or anything, but weary, and anxious not to be a burden. "Just hold the door for me?"

Dean bit back a sarcastic remark and just shook his head.

The brothers made their way up to the house in silence, Sam staring unseeing at the dusty ground, Dean keeping him upright with both arms around his body.

"Need a hand there, boys?" Bobby announced his presence from the top of the veranda steps.

He didn't wait for an answer, just thumped his way down to the brothers, wrapped an arm around Sam's waist from the opposite side to Dean, and helped drag the youngster into the main house.

"Made up your usual room. Should be good and warm in there by now. Got that old oil heater you boys used to like when you were kids…"

He mumbled on, his gruff manner and whisky rough voice soothing and familiar to the brothers after days of clinical surroundings and strangers in scrubs.

"…it still casts that weird blue glow on the ceiling, and if you're of a mind to, I'm sure you haven't lost the knack for bunny shadows…" Bobby added, fondly.

Dean chuckled. Yeah, he remembered that.

When he and Sam were kids, Dean used to entertain his little brother at night by turning out the bedroom lights, and casting hand-shadow puppets on the ceiling. Six year old Sammy had loved it, and the little boy couldn't keep from giggling loudly; so loudly in fact, that a highly amused John Winchester would stride up the stairs and bellow at his boys to "Keep it down, for God's sake! You're supposed to be asleep!"

Dean's grin softened at the unexpected memory.

Those were happier times in the Winchester family.

Sam didn't say a word in response to Bobby's ramblings. His head hung down, wobbling bonelessly with each step upwards into the house, and the only sign that he was even awake were the clumsy attempts to keep his feet under him.

Bobby caught Dean's eye over Sam's head. _He ok?_

Dean shrugged slightly in response. _Absolutely not._

Bobby nodded and cast a worried, sideways glance at the younger Winchester.

"Say, Sam? You hungry?" he asked, casual as you please. "Got some homemade burgers ready to grill, and a freshly tossed salad… you interested?"

Sam raised his head. "I-I don't…"

"Dude, you can't take any more of those pain meds on an empty stomach," said Dean, reasonably. "You'll burn a hole in it."

It had been one hell of an effort as it was, trying to get some soup down the kid en route to the yard. First time Dean attempted it, up came the meds _and _the soup, all over the diner table.

Yeah, the clear up had been fun, Dean remembered, sourly, with disgusted diner patrons watching on and making no move to help. Sam had nearly died of embarrassment when someone not so subtly remarked about _damn drunken kids_ and_ self-inflicted illness_. Dean had heard it loud and clear, and the only thing stopping him from ripping the old guy's head off had been Sam's hand on his arm, gently tugging him back.

Dean watched the kid now, hoping that display of the old Sam would come through once again.

"Ok," Sam whispered, and nodded, just a slight movement, but acknowledgment nonetheless.

"Alright, then," Dean allowed himself a triumphant smile, oddly and _overwhelmingly_ pleased with Sam's slow but steady progress.

Bobby, however, wasn't nearly so reassured.

* * *

><p>It didn't help Bobby's faith when Sam freaked out at the dinner table. His burger had bled a small amount of red juice onto his hands, the meat a little rarer than he usually took it. He went almost catatonic, mumbling under his breath, staring at his hands in horror, as though they were completely covered in blood, rather than a small amount of meat juice and cooking oil.<p>

"_It wasn't me… it wasn't me…"_

Dean and Bobby had been forced to intervene.

As soon as Sam was drugged up on more pains meds and tucked away in bed, Bobby rounded on Dean with a scowl.

"Something ain't right with Sam."

Dean glanced up from scrubbing the dishes.

"You noticed that, huh?" he remarked, sarcastically, and nodded, in a 'told you so' kind of way. "Yip. Poor kid's been like this since he woke up."

Bobby glanced quickly over at the kitchen door, as though worried Sam might appear at any moment.

"He's acting like he's seen ghost or something," the older guy scratched the back of neck, nervously. "You don't think…?"

"Nah," Dean assured him. "Once Sam was out of danger, I went back and checked the room for EMF. Not even a squeal, man. I'm telling' ya. Whatever it was?" he reached out, grabbed up a towel and began drying his hands, distractedly. "It wasn't a ghost."

Bobby nodded and breathed out, long and slow.

"Well, you know I ain't a fan of forcing someone to talk before they're ready," he said, quietly, eyes narrow and heavy with concern. "But somehow I think we're gonna need to make an exception here. Whatever went down that night? It's killing him."

Dean's mouth quirked, humourlessly. Singer sure had changed his tune in the last few hours.

"Tell me about it," his sad gaze sought Bobby's and he sighed, wearily. "If you got any ideas, let me know."

Bobby nodded, thoughtfully.

"Leave it with me."

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC...<strong>_

_**A/N:**_

_**So, what do you think so far?**___

_**Start clicking that review button, boys and girls!**_

_**Also, please treat all medical references with a pinch of (rock) salt.**___

_**Cheers,**_

_**ST xxx**_


	2. Chapter 2

**The Truth and Nothing But**

**Chapter 2**

Bobby glanced around his kitchen, nervously checking to make sure no one was watching him, then added a few drops of a red, oily liquid to the pot. It dissolved instantly with little fuss, leaving no trace in the bubbling, meaty goodness.

He breathed it in and savoured the smell. Classic beef and vegetable stew. Perfect comfort food for an injured and traumatised hunter.

Dean knew about the additional ingredient and hadn't approved, but when all was said and done, Sam wasn't getting any better. The kid was slipping further away, piece by piece, shutting himself off. A week after their arrival at Bobby's place, Sam had just about stopped talking altogether. He barely acknowledged Dean or Bobby, and ate and slept like an automaton.

Dean soon gave in to Bobby's insistence, and even made the trip into town to pick up some of the ingredients.

It wasn't a truth serum, per se, more of a relaxant though there were some similar properties.

Like alcohol, it melted the recipient's inhibitions, took down all those carefully erected barriers, allowing them to feel safe and content enough to talk. Unlike alcohol, it was perfectly safe, non-addictive, and didn't leave the recipient drunk, or with a hangover the size of Ireland, come morning.

Bobby did have a recipe for an all out truth serum, one known to be far more powerful and reliable than sodium pentathol, but Dean drew the line at that. Drugging Sam to relax him was bad enough, but he wasn't quite ready to go all the way up to what could constitute a violation of trust. Dean wasn't agreeing to this in order to gain the upper hand, or learn if Sam had any dirty little secrets. He was doing this to help the kid. If the information this little exercise gleaned became torrid, dangerous or shameful, they would deal with it calmly and rationally.

He hoped.

Bobby heard shuffling footsteps coming from the hallway and hurriedly fixed the lid on the glass phial. Tucking it away in his shirt pocket, he turned just in time to see Sam appear in the doorway.

"Kid, what the hell you doing out of bed?" Bobby grumbled at him, and pulled out a chair from under the scarred old kitchen table. "Here, sit down before you fall down."

The kid stopped his shuffling when he saw Bobby and leaned heavily on the kitchen door frame, swaying and blinking.

Bobby sighed. Physically, Sam was healing well, but the gunshot wound had been serious and he'd lost a lot of blood. He exhausted easily – just coming downstairs could be enough to wipe him out – and his pain meds made him sleepy.

Sam gazed at Bobby.

"Dean's just outside, polishing the Impala," said Bobby, quietly, sensing Sam's anxiety. "I was about to call him in for some grub."

Sam nodded and gingerly pushed away from the door. He stumbled over to the table, reaching out to it for support, and nearly went down when his hand missed it altogether. Bobby caught him and pulled him into a chair before the kid could face plant and injure himself all over again.

"Take it easy, Sam," Bobby murmured, and moved back to stir the pot again. "Hope you like beef stew, 'cos there's plenty. Burgers for Dean, of course. Kid won't eat anything else. I swear, he's gonna turn into a cow one of these days, if he eats enough of 'em. Don't know what the cattle industry would come to if he decided to go vegetarian on us."

His chatter filled the uneasy void, even though he knew Sam wouldn't answer.

Out the corner of his eye, Bobby noted how Sam watched him in wary silence. And little wonder.

Sam was probably still waiting for the endless questions to start up again, despite Dean and Bobby having backed off a few days ago, after Sam had finally snapped and refused to come down for dinner.

Without waiting for Dean, Bobby filled a bowl with a generous portion of the spiked stew and set it down in front of Sam, who just stared at it and made no move to pick up his spoon.

Bobby swallowed hard and tried to watch him unobtrusively.

If Sam had figured it out, or sensed something was off, then it was game over. No way would the kid trust him again.

Fortunately, Sam seemed to snap out of it. He looked up at Bobby, nodded his thanks with an accompanying weak smile, grabbed the spoon and dug in.

Somewhere in the house a door slammed, and footsteps clomped towards the kitchen.

"Something sure smells good!" Dean called out.

There came a rustling, as though he was removing his jacket, and seconds later a filthy face peered round the kitchen door, sniffing furiously.

"Oh man, I could eat a whole…"

"Cow?" Bobby remarked, sardonically. He shook his head when Dean just grinned back at him. "Thought so. It's beef stew but…"

"Uh uh!" Dean backed away, greasy palms spread out in front of him, eyes widening. "You know I don't do vegetables, dude. Don't make me get nasty on your ass."

"God forbid you actually eat something healthy," Bobby agreed, reached down, and opened up the grill under the stove, releasing clouds of flavoursome steam. "The world might end. That's why you got burgers."

Dean relaxed, dropped his hands, and went to give them a good scrubbing at the sink.

Sam watched him in silence, peeking out from under his long bangs.

"That's better, huh, Sammy?" Dean planted himself into the chair opposite his brother, noting with approval the way Sam was eagerly slurping up his stew. "Gotta admit, though. The way that smells? I'm tempted."

Sam flashed him a shy grin before stuffing his mouth with another spoonful.

Dean's heart lightened for the first time since they departed the hospital. Sam showing enthusiasm for food was a rare sight indeed, but to see his smile again, no matter how small, was a good sign.

Or it would be, except, it wasn't real.

Dean quirked a brow at Bobby when the guy placed a juicy burger in front of him. Bobby's nod was subtle before he turned back to serve up his own food.

No. Sam's smile was drug induced. A kind of false horizon.

"So, anyway," Dean decided to make the most of it, and grinned back at his brother. "The Impala's all clean and sparkling. Inside _and_ out. What you say we go for a ride after dinner, huh, Sam?"

Sam stopped eating. He appeared to be considering Dean's suggestion with the same level of seriousness he might adopt if asked "where do babies come from?" by a young child.

"Uh, I-I…" he stuttered, cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "D-do you mind if we stay here? I'm still in a lot of pain. Don't think I could take more than five minutes on those ropey old shocks."

Sam blinked, seemingly even more surprised than the other two at his sudden bout of verbal diarrhoea.

Dean wisely pretended not to notice and kept up the brotherly banter.

"Old? _Old?"_ he spluttered, indignantly. "They're virtually brand new!"

"Ok, not old. Maybe ropey, though," Sam replied immediately, with a sly grin.

"Why you…!" Dean, chuckling lightly, quickly tore off a piece of burger bun and threw it at Sam.

It landed in Sam's hair, and he shook his head carefully, tugging the morsel of bread out and dunking it in his stew.

"Well, if you're gonna waste it," said Sam.

He closed his eyes, loaded the gravy soaked piece into his mouth, and sucked on it with glee.

"Mmm. Great stew, Bobby." He turned to their old friend and smiled, gratefully. "Really great."

Bobby was just about to sit down with his own burger, and fervently hoping Sam wouldn't question why he was the only one with stew.

He glanced over at the younger brother and nodded.

"You're welcome, son. You _both_ always are."

They ate their meal, feeling more relaxed than any of them had in days, though Dean was unsure how to proceed at this point.

Should he find a way to lead into it subtly?

But subtlety wasn't his strong point, and coming out and just asking didn't seem right, somehow.

But it was Sam who made the first move.

After dinner, the boys were sitting out on the veranda, watching the sun sliding down the sky. Bobby came out bearing three mugs of thick, dark cocoa, two of them laced with a little whisky.

Sam was given the one without and if he realised, he didn't mention it.

"Last time we were here, I ruined your ceiling," he murmured, suddenly.

Bobby's eyebrows went up in surprise.

"_Meg_ ruined it," the older hunter corrected, softly. He stared pointedly at the kid and added "Not you, Sam. _Never_ you."

Sam hung his head and went quiet for a moment, just breathing in the scent of his cocoa.

Dean frowned, wondering where this was going.

"But I didn't stop her," said Sam, slowly raising his head again.

His gaze was fixed on Bobby but it soon turned to his brother, filled with anguish and despair.

"Just like I didn't stop her from hurting you. And I'll never forgive myself for not being strong enough to fight her, like Dad fought Yellow Eyes back at the cabin."

He sniffed and glanced back at the setting sun.

"And as if that ain't bad enough, I've become a murderer," he said, breath hitching, tears slowly rolling down his face.

He paused to angrily wipe them away with the back of his sleeve.

"You should have killed me when you had the chance, Dean."

"Alright, that's enough!" Dean hissed, cutting him off.

He wanted to find out what happened that night in the motel room, not send his little brother into a spiral of self-loathing.

"You're not responsible, ok? You did nothing wrong!"

"But I…" Sam started shaking his head.

"No!" Dean abruptly stood up, towering over Sam, green eyes glinting angrily in the evening light.

He reached down and gently grasped Sam's arms, pulling him to his feet.

"I don't want to hear any more about this, you understand?" Dean barely resisted the urge to give him a rough shake. "It's a closed chapter. We can't go back and change things, and we can't bring Steve Wandell back to life. We move forwards instead. It's the only way, Sammy, and you holding onto your guilt over something you had _no control over_ helps no one, and you dying is not going to make anyone feel any better about it."

"It sure seemed to help his daughter feel better though," said Sam, quietly, staring at Dean. "If only for a while."

"You…" Dean stopped when it dawned on him, and his eyes widened.

Sam nodded.

Dean's face was a picture of turmoil.

He should have realised it sooner. All the signs had been there.

"Alright, kiddo," he murmured, reaching up and rubbing the boy's neck. "Let's sit and talk this out, huh?"

Carefully lowering Sam back onto the veranda steps, he sat beside him, one arm slung around the kid's thin shoulders.

"Tell me…?" he asked, softly.

* * *

><p><em>Two weeks earlier…<em>

"I'm starved!" Dean yawned, widely, and stretched like a cat the minute he was out of the Impala.

Ignoring the twinge in his shoulder, he grinned across the car roof at his little brother.

"Gonna get some food. You want anything, Sammy?

Sam climbed out of the car, wearily, and smiled back at him.

"Nah, you go ahead and feed that insatiable appetite before it mugs some poor bastard in the street," he replied, swinging the passenger door shut. "I'll go find us a room."

Dean studied him closely. "You sure? When was the last time you ate anything?"

Licking his lips, Sam nodded. "I ate breakfast, Dean."

"You had coffee and an apple, dude," his brother replied, eyes narrowing. "And that was seven hours ago."

"If you know," Sam huffed, moving to open the trunk and grab their duffle bags. "Then why ask?"

Dean looked away, unconsciously checking out their surroundings and monitoring everyone in sight. A young woman caught his eye. She was young, pretty, dark haired and petite, _definitely_ his type. When he winked at her, she blushed and hurried onwards down the street.

_That was weird._

Not the blushing. No, Dean Winchester, notorious rake and proud, self-confessed sex addict expected that part. It was more how she seemed so anxious to get away from him. He almost felt offended.

Unperturbed, he shrugged and turned back to his brother, who was watching him with some amusement. Dean ignored the obviously pending snark about his appetite for food matching his appetite for sex, and got back on to the original topic.

"Look, I'm just worried about you, ok?"

Sam's amusement was gone in a flash, and his mouth turned down.

"I'm more worried about your shoulder," he said, voice hoarse with regret.

Dean wasn't about to make a big deal out of it, even if the damn bullet wound did still hurt like a bitch.

"Dude, its fine. Jo pulled the slug out, wrapped it up… it's healing," but he didn't miss his little brother's flinch.

_Open your mouth a little wider… just a little more… there! _

_Now you can get the laces in, dumbass!_

Mentioning Jo Harvelle probably wasn't the best of moves at this point. Sam had enough to feel guilty about, and bringing the girl's name up was likely rubbing salt in the proverbial wound. Albeit, unintentionally.

"Look, we'll talk about this when I get back," said Dean, hoping to buy himself a little time to figure out how to approach this. "But, Sam?"

"Yeah?" said Sam, dolefully.

The look Sam cast him was weighed down with misery and it almost broke Dean's heart.

"You're gonna eat, ok?" he put up his hands in surrender. "Just for my sake, huh? Put my mind at ease?"

Sam sighed and nodded.

"Attaboy."

Later that evening, under Dean's watchful eye, Sam consumed two slices of pizza, a thick chocolate milkshake, and some cherry pie.

"That's better," Dean proclaimed, rubbing his belly with deep satisfaction. "Ain't that better, Sammy? World always looks a little brighter after some good food."

"If you say so," but Sam had to smile. He did feel a little better after eating something, but he wasn't quite ready to concede the point. Dean was insufferable when proved right.

"I _do_ say so," said his brother, getting up and throwing on his leather jacket. "And I also say that a few beers at the local bar will work wonders… _what?_"

Sam was already shaking his head before Dean had even finished speaking.

"Nah, I'm bushed, man," Sam jerked his head at the motel room door. "But you go have fun, huh? I'm gonna take a shower and hit the hay."

Dean was more than a little disappointed, if he was honest, but Sam did look really tired. The brothers still didn't know the full story of what Meg got up to with Sam's body during his possession, so it was quite possible the bitch kept him up partying, night after night, polluting him with smoke, drugs and God knew what else.

Dean was still in two minds about getting the kid checked out by a doctor, but when he'd brought it up Sam had - surprise, surprise - stubbornly refused.

"Ok," said Dean, reluctantly.

He was tempted to stay behind but, judging by the look on Sam's face, that would have made him feel even guiltier about the whole thing.

"I won't be late." He turned to go when Sam spoke up again.

"Take all the time you need," his brother said, softly. "You deserve it, dude."

Dean hid his smile and left for the bar.

Sam watched the door close, and let loose a breath in one sharp exhale. It might have been fun to go with Dean after all, but he really did need some sleep. And a hot shower.

For once, this particular motel was actually pretty clean, even if the bright purple décor made the eyes water. At least the TV worked ok, just a shame it was a rickety old black and white.

Sam regarded his reflection in the bathroom mirror, a purple, plastic monstrosity with pink hearts embedded in the frame.

He remembered a little of his time with Meg at the helm, recalled the claustrophobia of being trapped in his own body and the loss of control.

It had terrified him.

It still did, in fact.

Little pieces of the puzzle came to him in his sleep, tormenting him; small fragments of memory, like the shards of a broken mirror, came together to show him what he'd done.

He'd hurt Jo. He'd almost… almost…

Sam couldn't even bring himself to say it in his head. He'd never forced himself on a woman, let alone hurt her, and it made him sick to his stomach that he'd nearly done both to Jo Harvelle. Why Meg had stopped he didn't know, and refused to ponder it too closely. Perhaps it was a simple matter of time constraint.

He'd also shot and beaten his own brother.

Sam could still feel warm blood on his fingers from when he'd ruthlessly dug them into Dean's shoulder wound.

And then there was Steve Wandell. Throat opened up for all the world to see.

Sam growled and swung at the hideous mirror with an elbow, not even feeling a twinge when glass became embedded in his skin.

Blood dripping down his arm, Sam stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower. Setting the water temperature as high as he could bear, he stood, naked and still, head bent, letting the grime and dirt wash away and wishing his sins could be cleansed so easily.

He had no idea how long he'd been standing there, but the blood circling down the drain from the cuts on his arm, and the sting of hot water in the shallow wounds, woke him up enough to grab the shower gel.

After a good scrub, he picked pieces of mirror out of his skin, poured on some more gel and rinsed off.

Feeling clean, but still exhausted, a few minutes later Sam shut off the water, relieved to note that his arm had stopped bleeding.

He had a decision to make. Stay here and wallow in self-pity, or get out there and have some fun with his brother. He could tell from the look on Dean's face that he'd wanted Sam to come along.

Sam's mouth twisted as he thought about it, drying himself off on a rough, worn towel, and made up his mind.

Out in the bedroom, he pulled out a clean pair of jeans and a shirt.

Now that he was warming to the idea, he was kind of looking forward to spending some quality time with his big brother.

Perhaps, it was because he was so wrapped up in his thoughts, or because he was more tired than he realised, that Sam didn't notice the small, dark haired girl on the sofa. He pulled on his clothes and turned to grab his wallet from the nightstand, only to come face to face with a mean looking .44.

_Where the hell did _she_ come from? _"Uh…" Sam slowly held up his hands, palms outwards. "Hi there!"

She didn't respond to his big, friendly smile, nor did she seem impressed with his trade mark puppy eyes. In fact…

The girl snorted, angrily. "Fuck you."

_Definitely hostile. _"Let's just take it easy, ok?" he said, reasonably.

"Is that what you told my Dad?" she hissed, getting up off the sofa with a catlike grace that just screamed _hunter! _"Right before you slit his throat from ear to ear?"

Sam only just managed to keep his jaw from dropping.

_Steve Wandell's daughter?_

_Shit._

* * *

><p><strong><em>TBC...<em>**

**_So, this should be an interesting conversation, eh? _**

**_More Hurt Sam, and Awesome Protective Worried Big Brother Dean coming up next chapter, so start clicking that review button!_**

**_We writers need to know that we're needed!_**

**_Cheers,_**

**_ST xxx_**


	3. Chapter 3

**The Truth and Nothing But.**

**Chapter 3**

"Glad to see you're not denying it," she said, and slowly moved closer until she was just out of reach. "'Cos that would have been just plain dumb. I saw the tape. I saw what you did, you bastard!"

In spite of the danger – and a hunter out for revenge was about as dangerous as they came – Sam's heart broke for her.

She must have been around Sam's age, large, brown eyes wet with stubbornly unshed tears, belying the hard-assed attitude. Dressed in black from head to toe, including leather gloves and boots, there was nothing about her that spoke of the 'college girl' in her letters to Steve Wandell.

But, then, Sam could say the same thing these days. Perhaps, like him, she'd opted out of hunting for a while to experience a normal life, and now her father's death had dragged her right back in.

Sam suddenly felt overwhelmed with guilt. There was nothing he could say or do to change things. No doubt her ordinary, apple-life was now just as screwed as his had been the night Jess died.

But, how on earth had she seen the tape?

There was only one way he could think of.

Sam had no memory of it, but Meg must have made a copy of Wandell's security tape, the one that Dean later destroyed, and somehow passed it on to the dead guy's daughter.

Oh damn.

"I know this looks bad," Sam began, trying to reason with her and knowing instinctively that he would fail. "But if you'll just listen…"

"To what?" she sneered. "To you talking your way out of this? I don't think so!"

Young, angry and grief-stricken she might have been, but her hand was steady as a rock, and Sam had no doubts that she would squeeze the trigger if he gave her good cause.

Funny. He could have sworn he'd already covered that part.

Honestly, Sam couldn't really blame her. Had the roles been reversed, he'd have done the same, so if he could get her to see that then maybe he stood a chance.

"Ok," he said, softly. "At least hear me out. And if you still want to kill me?" he shook his head. "I won't fight you. I won't even try to run, I swear it."

The girl watched him with those dark, angry eyes, her jaw tightly clenched.

Sam regarded her in turn, meeting her gaze as honestly and openly as he could.

After a couple of minutes had passed, she nodded towards the bed.

"Sit, with your hands on your knees," she ordered, backing away and perching on the arm of the sofa. "If they so much as twitch, I'll shoot 'em right off, understood?"

Sam nodded and did as he was told, moving slowly and deliberately, feeling her heated glare right through the back of his shirt. He had just one chance. If the girl was a hunter, as he suspected, then she would know about demon possession. That was half the battle won.

The other half, convincing her that he was also a victim in this mess, wasn't going to be quite so easy. And if he failed, no one would hear or come running. The muffler on her .44 would make sure of that.

"Well, go ahead," the girl prompted him. "Let's hear it."

Sam took a deep breath and started from the beginning.

To her credit, she didn't interrupt him much at first, except for a few brief questions. And when he talked about Meg, and demons, and possession, she merely nodded.

He described the times when Meg had allowed him up for air, to watch some of the despicable things she'd used his body for.

"What was it like?" she had asked, quietly, right before he planned to move onto the volatile subject of her father's death.

"Being possessed?" Sam carried on when she nodded. "Like being held under water with your arms tied behind your back, unable to breathe, or fight, or even scream for help. You have very little control over anything."

She nodded slowly and bit into her lower lip.

"So, what you're telling me," she said, voice a little shaky. "Is that the guy on the tape, the one slitting my father's throat… that was this Meg demon?"

Sam watched her, wary and guarded.

"Yeah, I'm afraid so," he whispered, gently. "For what it's worth, I'm really, very sorry for your loss. I keep looking back and wondering if I could have done something…"

"What do you mean 'could'?" the girl hissed. "Of course you 'could' have done something. You said it yourself, you had little control… a _little!" _She was virtually shaking with rage. "That means you weren't _totally_ helpless."

She rose from her seat on the sofa and advanced on Sam.

"You could have fought harder to stop her… _should_ have stopped her!" she half-sobbed, eyes shining bright with anger and loss.

Sam was thinking quickly, trying to figure out a way to get her to see reason beyond her grief.

"Look, I'm a hunter," he said, soothingly. "Just as your father was, and I'm pretty sure you are too, right?" When she nodded, hesitantly, he asked "What's your name?"

At first he didn't think she was going to answer, but moments later she let out a soft sigh and backed off a few steps, her gaze never leaving him.

"Emma. Emma Wandell."

"Ok, Emma," said Sam, staying calm and non-threatening. "So you know what can happen to people during a possession, and that the victim rarely survives."

Emma didn't say anything, just stared at him. He took that as his cue to continue.

"Meg used me to hurt other people, _good_ people I care about. She shot my own brother, and made me watch," he sniffed, licked his lips, and allowed his long awaited tears to fall. It was hard to talk about it without conjuring the bloody images of Dean's pain, and he supposed it always would be. "As long as I live, I'll never forget it and I'll never forgive myself for not being able to stop it…"

"Screw you!" Emma Wandell's upper lip curled angrily. "You _could_ have stopped it! How can you live yourself, huh? How can you live with what happened, knowing if you'd fought just that little bit harder, my father would still be alive!"

Sam's eyes widened and he raised his hands again. "Emma…!"

"Shut up!" Emma spat out, and gestured upwards with the gun.

Sam took the hint. He stood up, and waited for his life to end.

"Go ahead," he whispered, sadly. "You'd be doing me a favour anyhow. 'Cos you're right. I can't live with this any longer."

Emma stared at him, finally letting her own tears go. They rolled down her delicate face and neck, highlighting just how young she really was.

Sam didn't care much for his own life. Not now. But he did care about what this would do to Emma one day, long after the pain had faded a little, and the anger had dimmed. The path she chose this very night could drastically alter the course of her life.

"Turn around," she whispered in reply.

Sam turned his back to her.

And waited.

And waited.

Her heard a sniffle, and waited some more, before quietly telling her.

"You can't do it, ya know," he heard a hitched breath and carried on, figuring he had nothing to lose. "You're not a killer, Emma. A hunter yes, but not a killer. I was possessed, but what you're doing is cold blooded murder. The question is: can _you_ live with that?"

He didn't know for certain what happened, but he heard the dull _thunk _of a silenced bullet shortly before he felt the pain in his back.

The force of the impact threw him forward, over the end of his bed, and he rolled helplessly onto the floor.

Barely able to breathe, already feeling his body slide into shock, he gazed up into the horrified face of Emma Wandell.

"Oh God," she breathed. One hand was still holding her weapon and shaking badly, but the other reached up and clamped over her own mouth, muffling her voice. "Oh God, what the hell have I done?"

She blinked and dropped to her knees beside him.

Sam gasped and choked, feeling his own blood seeping onto the purple carpet.

"I am so, so sorry," she sobbed, desperately checking his pulse. "I didn't… I… I never wanted this. I was just going to scare you... to punish you... but the gun went off. I thought I'd put the safety catch on… Sam, I…"

"S'ok," Sam reached out and grabbed at the hand still covering her mouth. "B-believe m-me, it's o-ok…"

She relented and tightly gripped his hand, bringing it back to her mouth for a gentle kiss.

"No it's not," she said, lips trembling against his skin, tears now streaming down her face. "It'll never be ok."

Sam could feel his life slipping away, his body cold, numb, and shaking with shock. He gave her hand one last squeeze.

"Y-you'd b-better g-go," he murmured, barely able to get the words out around all the shivering. "T-take y-your g-gun… d-destroy it…" he gulped and tried to swallow the blood coming up his throat, but it bubbled out his mouth and slid down his chin.

"Shhh," Emma, ran a hand over his shoulder, trying to sooth him. "I'm not going anywhere. Not going to leave you, and I don't care if they arrest me. I deserve it."

"No!" Sam grunted and somehow summoned the strength to roll over onto his stomach, spitting out blood. "N-not the c-cops… m-my b-brother… h-he'll k-kill y-you…"

Emma considered that, and her answer was short but sweet.

"So be it."

Sam found it a little easier to breathe in this position, but he knew it wouldn't last long. He'd bought himself time, but seconds only.

"G-get… out," he hissed, desperately. "J-just g-go."

He turned his head a little to look at her, his cheek grazing the rough carpet.

"L-live… f-for your d-dad. M-make h-him p-proud"

"I…" Emma gulped back more tears. Sam deserved better than some wailing, weeping woman in his last moments.

This brave man was letting her go free, even after what she'd done to him.

"S'ok," Sam whispered, again, virtually reading her mind. "N-nothing to... f-forgive."

Emma leaned down and pressed a kiss to Sam's hair, then stood up.

"I'll call someone… get some help for you," she murmured. "Goodbye, Sam. I hope you find peace, wherever you end up."

Sam watched her head towards the door. She mouthed _thankyou_, then disappeared into the night, letting the door bang lightly off the frame and fall back without latching.

He huffed out a painful breath and tried to relax his muscles, but a rough estimation of the recovery position wasn't the most comfortable to lie in.

Sam stubbornly held on, waiting for the one person he wanted to see before his lights went out permanently.

Fortunately, the sound came sooner than he expected, the deep rumble of a V8 followed by the squeak of hinges, and light, carefree footsteps.

"Dean…" he breathed, wishing he could call out.

Sam sensed the moment his brother spotted the open motel room door, because his footsteps became stealthier, slower, and more purposeful.

"Sam?" Dean called out softly.

Sam blinked and tried to answer, but his body was failing him.

"Sammy?"

The door swung open a little wider, revealing Dean with his Taurus drawn, gaze flitting round the room looking for…

"Sammy!"

As soon as his eyes lit on Sam, Dean scrambled across the room to him, one hand reaching for the pulse in Sam's neck, the other pressing against the wound on his back.

Sam choked out a painful groan.

"Sammy, talk to me!" Dean begged, frantically. "What the hell happened…" his eyes widened "...is that a _bullet wound?_"

Sam could no longer speak if his life – haha – depended on it, so he nodded instead.

"Alright, just hold on, ok? Just… just..." Dean trailed off as he shrugged out of his jacket, pulled off his button down shirt, bundled it up and shoved it under Sam's blood soaked tee-shirt, against the wound.

Sam grunted, his body jerking violently. The pain was unbearable, but Dean didn't let up on the pressure.

"M'sorry, kiddo, gotta try and slow the bleeding," Dean searched the leather jacket for his cell phone one-handed, muttering curses until his hand closed around a familiar shape. "Just take it easy, Sammy…"

But Sam was fading in and out, not really sure what the hell was going on anymore.

Eventually, he vaguely picked up on other people coming into the room, talking to him, prodding, poking, and then finally rolling him over onto his back.

The only thing he managed to focus on, with any semblance of success, was his brother's voice, until that, too, became over shadowed by pain.

Next time he woke up, there was something plastic held over his mouth and nose, Dean was sitting beside him, and the world appeared to be moving weirdly.

"Don't worry, Sammy, someone already called it in," Dean was saying, calmly, but his eyes glinted worriedly in the overhead lighting. "We're in an ambulance, already. These guys were fast, huh? Gotta be a record. Hate to think how many speeding tickets they would've picked up…"

Even in his sorry state, Sam could detect the levels of panic beneath the thin veneer of levity. Though he'd calmed himself down a little, Dean was still scared shitless.

Sam opened his mouth to reassure him, but couldn't get the words out. He whimpered pathetically, instead.

Suddenly, Dean leaned forward, whispering in Sam's ear.

"Who did this to you, Sam?" said Dean, voice low and urgent. "Who was it? Was it Gordon? C'mon, I know you're in pain, but I need to know in case they come back to try and finish the job."

Sam just blinked up at him, helplessly, wishing he could remove the desperation from his brother's eyes. There weren't many times that Sam could recall seeing Dean cry, but now was one of them.

It was a sad sight, watching those brilliant green eyes, so recently filled with pain over the loss of their father, cloud over once again. And this time it was all for Sam.

"Goddammit, Sam!" Dean choked on his tears. "For Christ sake, tell me! I'm not gonna lose you to another psycho hunter, you hear me? I won't!"

_Emma's a hunter but she isn't a psycho_, Sam wanted to tell him, _just a daughter grieving for her murdered father._

Sam couldn't stay awake any longer. His eyes slid shut, and he was vaguely amused that his brother was only half right.

_**TBC...**_

_**A/N: So, what do you think Dean's going to say to all this? By all means let me know!**_

_**BTW, you guys can follow me on Twitter, under Skagtrendy37, if you fancy looking in on my everyday ramblings from time to time. **_

_**You'll be amused, perhaps confused, maybe disgusted (I'm English. I enjoy toilet humour), but most certainly entertained.**_

_**Cheers my darlings,**_

_**Love ST xxx**_


	4. Chapter 4

**The Truth and Nothing But.**

**Chapter 4 and epilogue**

_**Thank you so much for all your wonderful reviews, all of which were highly interesting to read, and extremely varied, especially when it came to the subject of Emma Wandell. **_

_**I would ask some of you to please try and remember that the poor girl was stressed and grief stricken over the loss of her father, and that she wasn't in her right mind. Don't forget what the brothers got up to in later seasons whilst grieving for each other.**_

_**Sorry I didn't have time to reply to your review for chapter 3, but I thought you guys would rather have the concluding chapter instead. I promise to reply to all reviews for this one.**_

_**Now…**_

As Sam's fingers nervously fiddled with the hem of his shirt, he resisted the urge to chew on his nails. He could sense Dean's heavy gaze on him, and the arm curled around his shoulder was almost tight enough to bruise.

"It was that girl in the street, right Sammy?" Dean asked, quietly. "Just before we checked in?"

Sam nodded. "She must have been following us, biding her time, waiting for us to split up."

Den sighed. "And now you're gonna tell me why you kept it to yourself."

"I knew you'd go after her," said Sam, risking a glance at him, and wincing when he saw the cold, hard anger in his eyes. "Dean, just leave her alone. She never meant to hurt me."

"Never point a gun at someone unless you intend to use it," Bobby growled, angrily, but neither brother was paying attention.

"The point is," Dean hissed, getting his face right in Sam's. "She _did!_"

He watched Sam for a few seconds, noting the dark circles under his eyes, and the way his tee-shirt just hung from his thin frame. The brothers would be taking a vacation from hunting until Sam filled out his clothes again, that was for damn sure.

But in the meantime, Dean had to make the kid understand a few things. Like how no one was shooting his little brother and living to tell about it.

"She methodically tracked us down," he said, quietly, deliberately, and all the more menacing for it. "Broke into our room, and threatened you with a loaded gun. Not a toy, not a decommissioned piece, but a real life, loaded, _gun, _Sam! So yeah, you bet your ass I'm going after her!"

Sam groaned in frustration. "Dean…"

"That bitch nearly killed you!" Dean roared, let go of Sam and sprung to his feet.

His fists were clenching and unclenching, like they were itching to punch something or someone. He paced away across the yard a few feet, and stood facing the sunset, hands by his sides, breathing deep and slow. After a few seconds of this, he swung around and paced right back over to Sam, staring him down.

"The bullet came within an inch of your heart. Did you know that? Huh?" Dean's haunted green eyes bore into Sam's. He crouched down until he was at Sam's eyelevel, and gently grasped the kid's shoulders with both hands. "You were coughing up blood by the gallon; I could see the life draining out of you. You held on, you were with me, but you were leaving and there was nothing I could do to stop you. So you see, Sam? I know what it's like, what you felt seeing that damn tape at Wandell's, 'cos I was right alongside you, and this time it was _your_ blood on _my_ hands. The only reason I came back to the room that night, was because I forgot my wallet, and when I saw the open door, and you… you were _dying_, Sammy."

Dean hung his head, but not quickly enough to hide the telltale glint of tears trickling down his face.

Sam just sat there staring at him, shocked into silence.

"You're my little brother, the only one I've got," Dean mumbled. He sniffed and wiped his nose on a sleeve. "And I'm not gonna just stand back and let hunters take pot-shots at you for something that wasn't your fault."

"I know," Sam whispered back. He reached over and squeezed Dean's shoulder. "But Emma… she lost her Dad, and she just went a little crazy for a while there. But she knows, now. I'm alive, that's the end of it. It's cool, Dean, let it go. Please?"

Dean lifted his head and regarded Sam through watery eyes. Eventually, he nodded, slowly.

"Ok, Sam. If you insist," he said, wearily. "We'll play it your way."

Sam was instantly suspicious. Dean never usually gave in this easy.

"You sure?" he queried. "Really?"

Dean's smile was slow in coming but when it did, for Sam it was like having the sun on his face after a long, dark winter.

"Whatever you say, dude," said Dean, suddenly ruffling Sam's hair and earning a decidedly unmanly squeak of protest from the younger brother. "Ya big girl!"

"Dean! Get off me!"

So busy squirming and trying to straighten his hair, Sam missed the look that passed between Dean and Bobby, which was just as well, because if he'd seen it?

It might well have made him angry.

* * *

><p>"<em>I got her exact address."<em>

"Good. I'll drop by later on."

"_Just be careful."_

"I'm always careful."

"_I'm just sayin' don't drop your guard for a pretty pair of eyes, Dean. Sam said she's young but knows one end of a gun from the other."_

"But apparently not the safety catch."

"_Touché. Just go in, and get it over with, fast."_

"Bobby, there's only one thing in this world that I _ain't_ fast at…"

"_It's real important to my sanity that you don't finish that sentence, Dean."_

Dean laughed softly at that, but let it go.

"I'll wait 'til Sam's asleep, then I'll slip out. According to Google maps her place is only a few miles away."

"_Call me when you're done. And Dean?"_

"Yeah!"

"_Don't make too big a mess, huh kid?"_

Dean grinned, pocketed his phone and headed back to the motel room with several bags of takeout food.

It had been over a month since the brothers left Singer Salvage, over two months since the shooting. They'd picked up a few light and easy hunts here and there, mainly harmless ghosts scaring the bejesus out of tourists or, in one case, a whole parish of church goers.

Sam hadn't mentioned Emma again, and Dean made every effort not to bring her up. The scar on Sam's chest from the bullet's exit wound was gradually fading, though the kid still winced in pain from time to time, usually after a particularly long day.

In those moments, Dean would feel all the blood drain away from his face, see Sam's blood on his hands, on Sam's back, coming out of his mouth, a growing pool of it on the carpet. He'd immediately push his brother down onto a nearby seat and finish off whatever he happened to be doing at the time, usually amid protests of "I'm fine, Dean." Or "I got it covered, Dean." Or just a plain, drawn out, whiny "Deeean!"

Dean's answer was invariably along the lines of "Shut up, bitch."

Overall, Sam was much brighter these days, their sucky life style aside, and Dean was relieved to see his little brother's sense of humour, and classic array of bitch faces, well and truly back up to par.

He dropped the food bags on the scratched up motel room table.

"What did you get?" asked Sam, eagerly, running a comb through his thick hair.

Dean grinned. His little brother's appetite was also back to normal, at last. In fact, it was vastly improved.

"Chinese, and there was a classic Old English Fish and Chip Shop next door."

Sam sniffed at the bags of food like a hungry, inquisitive puppy. "Nice! Which one are you having?"

Dean took off his jacket and slung it over the back of a chair. "There's enough of each for both of us so tuck in, dude. Don't let it get cold."

Sam grabbed a handful of thick chips and began eating them right away.

"This is great," he announced, after carefully chewing and swallowing. "I think I almost prefer these to fries."

Dean, on the other hand, wasn't nearly so genteel.

"I know, right?"

But it came out, "Ay oooh, 'ight?" hampered, as it were, by the large mouthful of battered sausage he'd stuffed unceremoniously into his mouth.

Sam grimaced in disgust. "How the hell you get girls to sleep with you is really beyond me, dude."

Dean swallowed and smacked his lips suggestively. "Let's just say, I have special talents."

"How 'bout we _don't _just say, huh?" Sam retorted and stole another few chips from Dean's portion.

Dean smacked his hand away when it came creeping back for more, seconds later. "Hey! You got your own!"

"Yeah, but it always tastes better when it's someone else's," replied Sam, with a cheeky grin.

Den scowled. "Brat!"

Sam laughed, reached over for the Chinese and dipped a chip in the sweet and sour sauce.

"It's in the Little Brother job description, so I take that as a compliment."

"Did you know that Little Brother Ass Kicking is in the _Big Brother_ job description?" Dean remarked, casually.

Sam just grinned and threw a chip at him.

Several hours and one too many beers later, Sam was out cold and snoring on the furthest bed, long limbs sprawled out like an over-sized starfish. Dean grinned fondly, and ruffled his hair again, making good and sure to mess it up properly.

He grabbed his jacket, checked the clip on his Taurus and slipped out the door. He made sure to lock it behind him, though that wouldn't stop a hunter with the right skills and tools. Which was why, for once, he'd chosen a room in full view of the roadhouse, parking lot and reception building. No hunter worth their salt would try to pick the lock with CCTV cameras trained on them, and around a dozen or so witnesses coming and going from the bar. And in the case of another visit from Meg? There was a devil's trap painted above the motel room door on the inside.

For a short while, Sam was relatively safe, but Dean had to be quick if he wanted to get back before the bar clientele became too drunk. A good hunter would wait patiently to take advantage of that, and hide their face from the cameras in some way.

The Impala rumbled approvingly when Dean finally got her out onto the open road, and put his foot to the floor.

It was time to pay Miss Wandell a visit.

* * *

><p>Her bedroom balcony door was wide open, white drapes fluttering in the warm evening breeze.<p>

Dean scanned the street outside. No one appeared to pay him any attention, and the only people on the street were a dog walker and a little old man hobbling along with the aid of a wooden cane.

It was a nice enough area, Dean observed, with lush green grass lawns and plenty of leafy trees lining each driveway.

For a former college kid turned-back-into-hunter, she sure had a nice place. Her old man had left a decent enough nest egg to provide for his daughter. Bobby's resources had uncovered several lucrative investments made by Steve Wandell over the years, with the majority of the profits going straight into Emma's bank account. It seemed that Wandell had also been an insurance broker before he was called to hunting, the reasons for which Bobby hadn't been able to ascertain.

Dean didn't hang around waiting for the grass to grow under his feet. He marched straight up to her front door, and calmly knocked, smiling at the elderly guy who nodded in return and shuffled on by.

He counted to ten and pressed his ear to the door.

Dean smiled, and headed back away from the front door and casually sauntered around to the rear of the building, where he spied a pair of long, slim, denim clad legs hanging over the chain link fence, attached to a shapely ass and a slender waist.

Pulling out his Taurus from the back of his jeans, Dean made a special show of noisily cocking the weapon.

The figure hanging over the fence froze and a pretty, young, familiar face turned his way.

"Thought you should know," Dean drawled, hard eyes fixed on her tiny form as she tried to wiggle her way down off the fence. "_My_ safety catch ain't on. I made sure of that."

Emma Wandell stopped struggling, and sighed deeply. "You're Dean Winchester, Sam's brother," she said, apologetically.

Dean ignored her tone. He wasn't here for that.

"Get down from the fence, nice and slow," he said, and his lip curled humourlessly. "Don't want any accidents now, huh?"

The girl bit her lip and appeared a little embarrassed.

"Uh… I would…" she turned her head to fully face Dean. "But I'm… uh… kind of stuck. I think my sweater's caught on the fence."

Dean stared at her for a long moment. Then he lowered his weapon with a loud, annoyed huff.

"Oh, for God's sake!"

Stuffing the Taurus back into the waistband of his jeans, he strode over and grabbed her legs, holding her up.

"Now, either slip out of the sweater or pull it free," he demanded.

"Hang on… I think it's coming free…" she announced and, with a triumphant squawk, fell heavily against Dean when the sweater let out a ripping noise.

Dean's eyes just about crossed when a tiny, booted foot nearly slammed into his joy department, but thankfully missed by a narrow margin.

Bits of sweater were left dangling off the fence, the remainder of it still wrapped around her shoulders.

"Thanks," she mumbled, got to her feet, and tore the rest away, leaving a plain, black v-neck, tee-shirt that accentuated her assets in all the right places.

Dean's eyebrows twitched a little, and his mouth filled with saliva. He'd be forever left with the memory of that warm, tight little body right next to his when he pulled her from the fence. But it wasn't the time or place. He had to remind himself what he was here for.

"C'mon," he grabbed her arm to steady her, and incidentally prevent the little minx from doing a runner on him. "I need coffee, and you need to listen."

"Where are we going?" she spluttered as she was virtually dragged along the sidewalk towards the front of the building.

"Why, we're going up to your apartment, and you're gonna make us some fresh coffee," Dean smiled sweetly, and nodded to a passer-by as they emerged back on the main street. "Just like old friends."

"I only drink tea…"

"Look lady," Dean stopped and rounded on her, feeling a twinge of satisfaction when the woman flinched. "Something tells me you ain't taking this too seriously, so let me clarify for you exactly why I'm here: You shot my brother, and damn near killed him!"

Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn't look away. "I know. And I'm sorry."

Dean stared hard at her. "Not good enough."

"Wh-what are going to do with me?" she stammered, fearfully.

Dean felt the first pang of guilt and wondered if he could really go through with this. Then he remembered Sam, bleeding to death, in pain, eyes begging for help, body soaked in his own blood. Just that fleeting memory was enough to stiffen his resolve.

He ignored her question. "Open the door. Nice and relaxed, now. Don't want to draw attention to ourselves," his voice went back to friendly, but his eyes were icy, his smile brittle. "You scream or do anything to bring help, and I'll shoot you right here where you stand."

She ducked her head and nodded, fumbling for the door keys to her apartment building.

Neither of them said a word as they climbed the stairwell to the second floor. With a shaky hand, Emma unlocked her apartment door, and was immediately pushed inside by a rough hand to her back.

"Sit," Dean had the Taurus back in hand, and used it to point to the kitchen table just inside the door.

Emma did as she was told, sitting down at the head of the table in a solid pine wood chair with arm rests.

Her eyes widened when Dean dumped a small pack on the floor, and brought out rope and two sets of handcuffs.

"What are those for," she asked in a shaky voice.

Dean ignored her. Instead, he grabbed her left wrist and cuffed it to the armrest, then repeated with the other wrist. He wrapped the rope around her waist and the chair back, then wound it downwards and around her legs until she was completely secured to the chair, with little or no wiggle room.

He turned another chair round, and straddled it, facing her with a scary looking smile, and the Taurus aimed straight between her eyes.

Emma raised her chin and met his gaze.

"Do it," she said, voice firm and bold this time. "Just finish it, here and now."

Dean narrow-eyed gaze didn't waver. "Nothing would give me more pleasure than to blow those pretty little brains out. And we'll get to that part. Oh believe me, we will. But first." He lowered the gun to the table and pulled a note pad and pen from his jacket pocket. "I want names."

Emma looked genuinely confused. "Of whom?"

Dean's laugh wasn't pleasant. "Your Daddy, God rest him, had hunting buddies. Men who are gonna come after Sam for what happened, and I intend to be prepared for them." He tapped the pen against the note pad. "So, I want names, and I want to know about any special weapons or talents."

"But," she shook her head. "How would they know it was Sam? The only reason I know is because of the copy of that tape I got in the mail…" she trailed off when it occurred to her.

Dean nodded, slowly. "Exactly. Who's to say Meg didn't pass around more copies of that damn tape."

"I-I guess," Emma frowned and thought about it. "Dad trained me to hunt with him after Mom was killed by a poltergeist. I was about eleven years old at the time. But he never really introduced me to other hunters." She saw the disbelieving look on Dean's face and added hurriedly, "oh, a couple dropped by over the years, but Dad would always take them into the study. Said they were good guys, great hunters, but he didn't really want me getting mixed up with them until I was older. And, then, I wanted to go to college…"

"How did your Dad deal with that?" Dean interrupted, curiously, thinking of the dark day his little brother left for higher education.

Emma barked out a short, unladylike laugh. "Not too well at first, but when he realised it was really what I wanted out of life," she shrugged, as far as the restraints allowed it, and smiled sadly. "We agreed that I would keep up training, and go hunting together some weekends. It wasn't ideal, but he figured it was the best he was gonna get from me. In the end, he just wanted me to be happy, be a part of my life, and this was the best compromise."

Her smile faded and her eyes filled with tears. "When I got that tape, I thought it was from him, one of his cryptic clues for our next hunt. He liked to keep me on my toes, he said, make sure college wasn't making me too soft." Emma sniffed and dropped her gaze to stare at the kitchen table. "I didn't think anything of it. Just put it in the VCR, pressed play…"

She took a deep shuddering breath, and when she spoke next her voice was shaky.

"At first I thought it was a sick joke someone was playing on me, but then I found the note, telling me who the man on the tape was," she glanced at Dean again, her tears finally rolling down her face. "Your brother."

"Where is the note?" Dean asked, sharply. "Do you still have it?"

Not that he needed the confirmation. He was pretty sure it was from Meg, rather than another hunter who happened on the tape by chance.

Emma nodded. "Yeah. Don't know why the hell I kept it. It's in the cookie jar over there," she jerked her head in the direction of a white porcelain cookie jar with red poppies painted all over it, sitting on top of the kitchen work top.

Dean's chair scraped against the floor slightly. Keeping the girl firmly in his sights, he slunk over to the jar and pulled off the lid.

He glanced back at her with a raised eyebrow when he pulled out the note and a small, ladies Derringer-style pistol.

She shrugged again. "It worked for Rockford."

"Until his Dad's cleaning lady found it," Dean acknowledged, dryly, but a little impressed all the same. He and Sam had cut their first teeth on old episodes of The Rockford Files, during many evenings spent in skanky motel rooms waiting for their dad.

He read the note, frowning.

It said, simply, _"Presenting, your father's murderer: Sam Winchester."_

In Sam's handwriting.

A written confession, in other words.

All things considered, the brothers sure were lucky Emma Wandell hadn't handed the tape and note straight over to the cops. The evidence was highly incriminating, and Sam would have been sent down for life.

_Meg, you sure are one clever bitch, huh? Thought of everything… but it wasn't enough._

"What do you intend on doing with that?" asked Emma, looking at the note.

"Same thing I'm gonna do with the tape, once you tell me where it is," replied Dean, matter-of-factly. "Destroy it."

Emma nodded. "It's in the safe under my bed. Code 03061985."

Dean couldn't contain his sarcasm. "Let me guess. Your birthday?"

"No," said Emma. "My brother's."

"You have a brother?"

"Not anymore. Died in Afghanistan last year."

Dean's face fell. _Shit._

"Any other…?"

"No. It's just me, now. I'm the only one left."

Dean couldn't imagine it. To be the last one standing, with no one to watch out for and no one, in turn, to watch your back.

"That… sucks," he mumbled, feeling true sympathy for the first time since he dragged her back to the apartment and tied her to the chair. "I'm sorry."

"Doesn't matter," she said, sadly. "I've still got college if I decide to go back to it, or hunting… plenty to keep me occupied, I guess." She snorted. "Well, up until now, at least."

Dean stared at her, thoughtfully, but still didn't lower the Taurus. As sympathetic as he felt towards her, no one, absolutely _no one_ threatened and shot his kid brother. Dean had no intention of becoming the last of the Winchesters, not if he could help it.

"Uh… my Dad did keep a hunting journal," Emma suddenly perked up. "I haven't really had a chance to look through it, since I was… ya know, tracking you guys down." She had the grace to flush with embarrassment. "It's in the top drawer of the bureau in my bedroom. It might have some names and such, some of Dad's hunting friends are bound to be mentioned in there."

Dean continued staring at her for so long that Emma began shifting uncomfortably in her tight bindings.

Suddenly, he spoke, his voice low pitched with warning.

"I'm gonna go find this journal, and the tape" he said, leaning forward into her personal space and looking her right in the eye. "And you better still be here when I get back. Believe me, lady, you don't want me to come looking for you."

Emma gulped and nodded frantically. "Of course," she murmured.

Dean shifted around her and headed towards the main living area. He glanced back at her occasionally, just to be sure, but she kept still and silent in her seat, not even attempting to free herself from the rope and cuffs.

Her back was to the living room, and he moved so silently that Emma had no idea Dean had returned to the kitchen, until she felt the barrel of his gun pressed against the back of her skull.

"I have what I came for," he whispered in her ear, sending a chill down her spine. "You've been most helpful, Emma. I'll be sure to tell my brother after your funeral."

Emma closed her eyes, and tried not to flinch when the loud click of the cocking mechanism reverberated through her brain. Her breaths came in short pants and she inwardly tried to calm herself down. This was it. Time to go join the rest of her family…

Dean squeezed the trigger.

Emma fainted.

When she woke up, some hours later, the room was dark, and the night sky was clouded over. The cuffs had been removed, but the rope remained. There on the kitchen table, just catching what little light came in from the street outside, lay Emma's own hunting knife, freshly sharpened.

It wasn't until she'd managed to free herself that she found the note pinned to her tee shirt.

"_The only reason you're still alive is because of a promise I made to Sam. I ever hear of you so much as being in the same _state_ as my little brother, and I _will_ come looking for you."_

Simple, but menacing.

Emma sighed, more than well aware that she'd gotten off lightly.

Yet, it somehow made her sad. From the moment she laid eyes on Dean Winchester she'd accepted her fate, embraced it even. Now that it was all over, and the guy had left her alive and well, it seemed... well, it seemed a bit of an anticlimax.

Emma had wanted to go. She'd been ready.

She glanced at the cookie jar on the work top.

Seconds later she was sitting on the sofa in the living room, nursing a straight whisky, the very same brand her father used to drink. She hated the stuff, but the bitter scent reminded her of home, love, and the only family she'd had left.

She stared at the Derringer held loosely in her hand throughout the night, mesmerised by it.

In the end, Sam Winchester had saved her, in more ways than one.

The only thing standing between Emma Wandell and a self-inflicted bullet to the brain had been Sam's insistence that she live, to make her father proud. And she was only given grace by Dean Winchester because of some stupid promise his brother had forced on him.

Yeah, she had made some pretty stupid, _insane_ decisions of late. Her father would have been devastated, and bitterly disappointed with her.

Emma broke down and sobbed relentlessly. Her tears flowed well into the early hours of the morning, until she fell into an uneasy whisky-induced sleep.

* * *

><p>Dean crept into the dark motel room and paused. He didn't remember turning off the nightstand lamp, or the TV.<p>

"So, did you find her?" Sam's sleep husky voice came from the bathroom.

Sure enough, when Dean looked there was a tall shadow leaning against the bathroom door frame.

Sighing, Dean reached over to the nightstand and turned on the lamp, letting the room flood with soft light.

"Are you going to answer me?" Sam demanded and stumbled towards him.

"Sam, just leave it," Dean wasn't going to bother asking how Sam knew.

"No," said Sam, standing close and glaring at his brother. "You promised me, Dean. You promised that you wouldn't hurt her…"

"And I didn't, ok?" Dean's voice was surprisingly soft, in spite of how much it hurt to hear that Sam doubted his word. "She gave me the tape and her father's journal."

"What?" Sam's double take was almost comical. "Why?"

Dean gently pushed Sam down on his bed. Kid was still a little drunk, and by the way he was rubbing his chest he was obviously in some pain. He was also shivering slightly, and Dean realised just how cool the room had become overnight.

"Because I wanted to know who might be coming after us," he explained, pulling up part of Sam's blanket and wrapping it around him. "Emma agreed there was a possibility that Meg sent other copies of that tape out to her dad's hunting buddies."

He squeezed the back of Sam's neck and stared into his bleary eyes.

"And I want to be ready for them. No one else is gonna get the drop on us again."

Sam's eyes filled with tears and he tried blinking them away, but they rebelliously rolled off his face.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, and sniffed. "I thought… oh God, I'm so sorry, Dean. I should've known you wouldn't…"

Sam hissed softly, and rubbed his chest again.

Any hurt Dean harboured over Sam's apparently lack of faith in him, dissolved immediately. He clapped his soft hearted, gentle giant of a brother on the shoulder.

"It's ok," he replied, and smiled at Sam to prove it. "Now c'mon, dude. You need sleep. We _both _do."

Sam let Dean tuck him in like he was six years old again, and sleepily watched his brother's own preparations for bed.

"Is she gonna be ok?" he whispered.

Dean paused, then went ahead with tugging off his jeans.

"As well as can be expected."

He wasn't going to mention her brother. Sam felt bad enough as it was.

"But yeah," he slipped under his own blankets, and rolled on to his side, facing Sam. "She'll be ok. Eventually. She doesn't blame you, by the way, not anymore."

He heard movement from Sam's bed, and the soft rustle of sheets as the kid also rolled to face him.

"Do you think she'll hunt, now? Or carry on with college?"

Dean suppressed a sigh. Sometimes he wondered if Bobby's truth drug was still knocking around Sam's system. Ever since the day of the spiked stew, Sam hadn't stopped talking. Great though that was, it was downright annoying at times like this when they needed sleep.

Still, Sam posed an interesting question.

"Honestly?" replied Dean, squinting into the darkness, only just making out the shape of Sam's face against his pillow. "Once she's thought things through, I think she'll blow off college, and hunt full time. Her father was killed by a demon, and that's a gold star, one hundred percent prime beef, classic call to the hunt."

"Yeah," Sam murmured, sadly. "I guess so."

The room fell silent, and Dean was just dozing off when Sam spoke again.

"I know what you and Bobby did, by the way," he mumbled around a yawn.

Dean's eyes snapped open, now completely wide awake.

"And I get it, I do," Sam continued, oblivious to his brother's reaction. "You were worried about me, and I was being a pain in the ass. But it wasn't fair, Dean."

Dean swallowed hard, and wondered when the air had gotten so dry.

"Sam…" he croaked, and swallowed again, then finally managed to get the words out. "Believe me, we wouldn't have even considered it, but you were fading away. I'd only just got you back from the hospital, and I was losing you again. To your own guilt. If there'd been another way…"

"Don't apologise," Sam cut in before Dean could say any more. "I don't need it, Dean, I'm cool. _We're _cool. Just…" he sighed, sounding despondent. "Just, don't do it again, ok?"

Dean sat up and turned on the lamp again. He needed to see his brother, to look him in the eyes for this.

"I won't ever do it again, Sammy," he whispered. "I promise you. So long as you promise to never shut me out again."

No way was he making any promises like that to Sam unless he was getting some kind of reassurance in return.

Sam blinked up at him.

"I didn't shut you out, Dean," he sniffed, eyes looking suspiciously bright again. "I just… I didn't know what to do, how to deal with what happened. And I know I should've just talked to you, but every time I tried, the words got stuck in my throat and I felt like throwing up."

Dean nodded. "We figured it was something like that."

Sam surprised him by letting out a soft laugh, thankfully breaking the awkward mood.

"Just ask me, next time, huh?" said Sam, smiling at him through his bangs.

"Yeah, yeah," said Dean, rolling his eyes. "Next time you clam up tighter than the NSA I'll just ask "Hey, Sam? You mind if we drug you? 'Cos, dude, it's four in the morning and you don't talk _enough_."

They both laughed this time.

"Point taken," Sam let out another yawn and closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, he caught his brother looking at him with that rare show of tender concern he only reserved for Sam, usually when he was sick or hurt. "Thanks, Dean."

The look was gone in a second. "What the hell for?" the older brother scoffed, brushing it off.

Sam smiled, eyelids drooping, all sleepy and content. "For just being you."

He was asleep and snoring in the next instant, and Dean shook his head, smiling.

"Stupid kid," he muttered, affectionately, and turned out the lamp for the last time.

_**C'est Fini!**_

_**A/N:**_

_**Well there you go, peeps! Hope you all enjoyed that, but do take a few moments of your time to click that review button and show your appreciation, eh? It only encourages me to let the plot bunnies start hopping again, and the sooner that happens the sooner I'll give you another story.**_

_**Cheers!**_

_**Love ST xxx**_


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